


Sequelae

by undun



Series: Need You Now [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Continuity Error, Greg's hands/Mycroft's shoes, M/M, Sweary Words, Wups it's the fourth time!, and dick, and other body parts, but kissing is ok...ok?, cruelty to clothes, emotions? ugh-grunt, i'm done now, middle-aged men getting horny, mycroft is a hot mess, mystrade, nipples!, please?, sticks sock in mouth, tell me to stop, there is tongue, third time lucky?, um - there is smexing, who fucking knows?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-12 20:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11744415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun
Summary: This no longer fits into the category of a fling, Greg thought, lifting his head to study Mycroft’s face. He knew what he wanted to do.Beta bashing by the lovely Luthien. I truly struggle with word making, so if any mistakes persist then it's because I couldn't leave well enough alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry guys, I lost my italics when posting -- I'll fix it after work. Greg's an emotional guy, he needs his FUCKING ITALICS!
> 
> update: fixed.

 

_‘A man should know his weaknesses’_

 

\---››››‹‹‹‹---

 

Sherlock was alive.

 

Greg couldn't keep the smile off his face, not that he was trying all that hard. The world felt completely different, but in a _good_ way for a change – a change he was only too happy to adjust to. He opened the door to his flat and flicked on the hall light.

 

“Good evening, Detective Inspector.”

 

“It's been a long time, Mycroft,” Greg said by way of greeting, putting his keys and phone on the kitchen counter and shrugging out of his coat.

 

Mycroft Holmes’ voice emanating from Greg’s darkened lounge had completely failed to startle him. After all, he’d just seen Sherlock rise from the dead in the Met car park.

 

_This is just the other shoe dropping._

 

Greg draped his coat over the back of a chair and propped his hands on his hips, giving his uninvited guest a challenging look.

 

He didn’t know what to think about Mycroft letting himself into his flat again, angry or elated or some other as-yet-undefined-emotion? His feelings could probably be summed up with one word: complicated. As was the man himself.

 

Mycroft rose from where he'd been sitting on Greg’s sofa. He dipped his head slightly – an almost-nervous gesture, except a man like Mycroft would never be nervous.

 

“The last time I saw you in my home you called me Gregory,” Greg said, advancing until he was within reach of Mycroft. The man gave the impression of backing up slightly without twitching a muscle.

 

“Yes, I remember. I think it might be best to keep things between us on a more professional footing,” Mycroft murmured. His eyes cut quickly to Greg’s mouth and back up, his expression predictably neutral.

 

Greg nodded but didn't offer any opinion on _that_ suggestion – because fuck that for a game of soldiers. He studied Mycroft for a few seconds, trying to work out why he'd shown up after nearly two years with no contact between them. He'd thought of Mycroft often, far too often, but had tried to move on. His feelings of guilt over Sherlock’s apparent suicide, and the crap he'd gone through at work had been enough disincentive to keep him from any serious attempt to seek Mycroft out. Now, though… now it was a different story.

 

“You must’ve known he was alive. You knew all this time, didn't you, and you let me believe he was dead.”

 

“Yes, I–”

 

“I bloody grieved for him,” Greg interrupted– “You let me grieve all this time… that night, after he–” Greg’s throat closed up. A wash of humiliation flooded him. He’d fucking _cried_ that night. He grabbed Mycroft by the lapels of his perfect suit. “You must have had a big laugh, watching me fall apart all over you in my own fucking bed, eh?”

 

“Gregory, no!”

 

Mycroft made no move to escape his hold but placed his hands firmly over Greg’s.

 

“Really? Because you left without telling me, and you haven’t made any attempt to contact me in all this time – you stayed away like you were avoiding a plague victim!” Greg shouted, shaking Mycroft slightly.

 

“Please–” Mycroft tilted his head back awkwardly. “D-don’t!”

 

Belatedly, Greg noticed fear in Mycroft’s eyes. He dropped his hands quickly, feeling ashamed. “Look, I’m sorry. Y–you’d better just go,” he muttered, backing away, looking anywhere but at Mycroft. His stomach lurched, acid roiling. “This is a bad idea. I think you’ve been right all along.”

 

“Gregory, please. I came here to apologise.”

 

“Sorry, what?” Greg swung his head up to stare. Mycroft’s face was pale and tense. _He’s lost some more hair,_ Greg noticed. His heart gave an extra half-beat.

 

“I couldn’t tell you that Sherlock was alive. His life and yours depended on maintaining the fabrication of his demise. There have been many times since then, however, that I was tempted to let you know,” Mycroft confessed. He smoothed his hands over his suit repeatedly, straightening wrinkles invisible to Greg’s eyes. “Staying away from you, not initiating any direct contact… It was the only way I could guarantee that I would not betray Sherlock’s secret.”

 

Mycroft hesitated then looked directly at Greg. “I am sorry, Gregory.”

 

Greg’s anger withered and shrank. There was no denying the anguish in Mycroft’s eyes -- eyes that had so often been cool and evasive, yet now spoke volumes. The emotions were right _there_. He let out a sigh and took a step forward, lifting his hands helplessly, palms upward.

 

Mycroft’s breath hitched and a soft sound escaped his mouth.

 

Greg caught Mycroft’s face between his hands, Mycroft clenched his fingers in Greg’s shirt. There was a split second of eye contact and then Greg closed his eyes, the vision of Mycroft’s haunted gaze frozen behind his eyelids. And just like that it was happening again.

 

He kissed him with abandon – tonguing roughly into Mycroft’s mouth, teeth catching on the edge of his lip, wondering how he could have survived so long without this, when had it become so necessary?

 

Mycroft had pulled his shirt out and his hands stroked underneath, leaving trails of goosebumps along Greg's skin. He groaned and moved his hands to Mycroft’s tie, fingers fumbling to undo it.

 

“Gregory–” Mycroft’s voice was rougher than Greg had ever heard it. His fingers made short work of Greg’s belt buckle and zipper, and then–

 

“Oh, god!”

 

Greg knees went to water and he stumbled as Mycroft moved to support him, one hand still busy pulling at Greg’s erection. He abandoned the mess he’d made of Mycroft’s tie – there were more important matters. He tore at Mycroft’s belt and fly, at risk of damaging tailoring he could not afford to replace. Finally, he had his hand around Mycroft’s prick – the shape and heft of which he’d tried, and failed, to forget.

 

“Yeah, Christ! Ohhh…” Greg stared down at Mycroft’s length in his hand, his hips tilting rhythmically as Mycroft stroked him. They were both so fucking _hard_.

 

Greg licked his lips and looked up at Mycroft. He was flushed and panting softly, looking right back at Greg. Their eyes locked and held. “Do you want to come like this?” Greg rasped out.

 

Mycroft gave a whole-body shiver and shook his head the slightest amount. Greg agreed – it was a struggle to stay upright; he didn’t want to face plant on the coffee table when he came.

 

“Bedroom.” Reluctantly, he removed his hands from Mycroft, instantly missing the thrumming, humid feel of him.

 

‘Gregory…’

 

Mycroft sounded politely bereft. Greg snatched at him, grabbing him around the arm as he hauled him towards his bedroom. With his free hand he made a half-hearted attempt to keep his trousers up. Mycroft’s were not falling, he noted – well of course not, handmade to fit every bloody gorgeous inch of him as they were.

 

‘On the bed, Holmes,’ Greg directed, giving Mycroft a gentle shove into the bedroom.

 

Mycroft sat down slowly, eyes heavy-lidded, watching as Greg finally let gravity take his trousers. Greg kicked off his shoes and began unbuttoning his shirt as Mycroft, with elegant efficiency, undid cufflinks, loosened his tie and took off his waistcoat. Porn, thought Greg, briefly squeezing his erection. _This man is porn_.

 

Greg dumped shirt, pants and socks in a puddle and knelt down in front of Mycroft. He undid both shoes and eased them off Mycroft's feet.

 

‘Gregory,’ Mycroft whispered. His eyes glittered in the light of the bedside lamp.

 

‘...’m right here, I’m not going anywhere,’ Greg husked out.

 

He straightened and licked into Mycroft’s mouth, slowly easing Mycroft’s shirt off his shoulders. Mycroft freed his hands from the sleeves and then Greg’s head was being cradled as they kissed, long fingers stroking through his hair. Mycroft broke their kiss long enough to mutter _‘beautiful’_. Greg’s chest gave a confusing jolt, his heart juddering unevenly. He couldn’t help but rise off the floor and gently push Mycroft back onto the bed until he was flat on his back. Now Greg could reach every goddamn inch of his creamy skin.

 

Mycroft’s hands seemed to want to stay in Greg’s hair. He moaned as Greg licked and sucked at his nipples, his hips lifting to press a ruddy erection against Greg’s belly. Greg moved to rut slowly against Mycroft’s thigh, enjoying the tease and not feeling the need to rush to the finish line this time.

 

 _This time._ Fuck if he was going to let this all go again afterwards.

 

What did it mean that they were doing this again? And would it continue to happen? If they could go two years between drinks and still be this eager to have sex, chances were good that, yes, it was going to happen again.

 

 _This no longer fits into the category of a fling_ , Greg thought, lifting his head to study Mycroft’s face. He knew what he wanted to do.

 

Mycroft looked at him quizzically. ‘Greg?’

 

‘I w–,’ And Greg’s mouth went dry. Wordlessly he reached into the bedside drawer, rummaging briefly (it had been a very long time) before pulling out condoms and lube. He dropped them on the bed next to Mycroft, who looked down at them with a small smile.

 

‘Will you let me–’ Greg began, his breath leaving him voiceless again before he could finish. _He trusts me with a lot of stuff, but can he trust me with this?_

 

Mycroft stared at him for a long moment, his eyes almost black. He nodded.

 

Greg began breathing again and fell on Mycroft none-too-gently, holding his face between his hands and kissing him sloppily. Feeling a bit idiotic, he leant back slightly.

 

‘Alright?’ He grinned, face aching from the wide stretch of his persistent smile.

 

‘Yes, yes I am, Gregory,’ Mycroft answered softly. His fingers traced Greg’s face. ‘You look so happy,’ he observed, looking both puzzled and amused. Mycroft leant up and Greg just had time to close his mouth and accept a brief kiss on the lips.

 

‘This might sound strange… even bizarre, but you make me happy,’ Greg confessed, then wondered if he should reach down and grab a sock to stuff in his mouth. Anymore sappy thoughts like that would surely have Mycroft running for the door.

 

Mycroft frowned slightly. ‘You don’t know me.’

 

Greg opened his mouth, speechless for a different reason. He sat back on his knees, knees which were astride Mycroft’s naked and very aroused body. He gestured to indicate as much to Mycroft, who, quite wonderfully, began to chuckle.

 

‘Yes, yes, point taken.’

 

Greg grinned, moved to the side and picked up the lube. He raised his eyebrows, unable to help himself from checking, because _fuck–_

 

Mycroft met his eyes calmly, an almost tranquil expression on his face. He shifted his knees, splaying them to reveal himself to Greg. Greg leant down and gave him a noisy, sucking kiss on his shoulder. He squeezed some gel onto his fingers, and, shifting to a better position, touched them to the cleft of Mycroft’s arse.

 

Mycroft’s head tipped back and he sighed softly. Greg stroked slowly until he reached the wrinkled pucker. He closed his eyes, dropped his head and his face was flush with Mycroft’s belly, his lips with Mycroft’s prick. He breathed on it, licked it, kissed it.

 

‘Ohhh,’ Mycroft’s voice wavered.

 

First finger in. Greg let out a gusting breath. Mycroft shivered underneath him. Greg looked for the lube and Mycroft held it up for him. More gel, and, gradually, more fingers… it took a while and when Greg was three fingers in, Mycroft was gasping and moving his hips, searching for more.

 

It was time.

 

Greg’s hands shook as he rolled on a condom. His hands shook as he positioned himself in between Mycroft’s legs, and his whole body shook as he slowly pushed in, eyes locked Mycroft’s face, watchful for signs of pain.

 

 _Oh God!_ It felt– _ohh!_ Overcome with pleasure _,_ Greg’s eyes slid shut for a moment. When he opened them it was to see Mycroft’s eyes were glassy. He didn’t seem to be looking at Greg anymore. Greg froze.

 

‘A’right?’ Greg’s heart thudded. His dick throbbed in counterpoint.

 

‘Yes-s,’ Mycroft assured him, his focus snapping back. He smiled slowly up at Greg. It changed his entire face, giving him a slightly dopey look.

 

Greg grinned back at him. _Getting rogered suits you, Mycroft._

 

He gave a very hesitant thrust and Mycroft’s eyes rolled back. Greg froze again.

 

‘Shit! Talk to me, Mycroft,’ Greg pleaded.

 

‘S-so good – don’t s-stop,’ Mycroft hissed, wrapping a leg around Greg’s arse.

 

‘Jesus, you fucking scare me sometimes,’ Greg swore, making another tentative thrust. He was breaking into a sweat and they’d barely started. Ah well, if he was going to have a myocardial infarction, this was definitely what he wanted to be doing when he was carried off.

 

Greg began making regular, slow thrusts – allowing himself to fully register the overwhelming pleasure of being inside Mycroft. His eyes drifted shut again and he gave himself up to the sensation, tension falling off him like a wet mac after a storm. Mycroft was making regular soft noises in time with his thrusts, the sound conveying his pleasure far more potently than anything he could have said. Greg huffed a short laugh, dizzy with joy and unable to contain it.

 

‘Gr… Greg–?’

 

He looked down and found Mycroft looking at him, a question in his eyes. Greg shifted and leant down on his elbows. Mycroft sighed, lifting his other leg to join the first, effectively caging Greg between his legs.

 

And that was perfectly fine, even if it meant Greg was reduced to micro-thrusts, because he was able to stroke Mycroft’s temples, nip at his neck and jaw, pant into his mouth, even as Mycroft somehow curled his pelvis up to meet every intrusion and the pleasure escalated from warm, hot, to incandescent in the time it would’ve taken Greg to boil an egg.

 

‘Gr–!’ Mycroft whined, voice cracking.

 

Greg just then realised that Mycroft’s prick had been trapped between them and he’d given no thought to it – too distracted with his own overwhelming pleasure. _Gotta take care of this lovely, long prick!_

 

He leant back on one hand, Mycroft gripped his shoulder and for a second Greg thought he might pull him back down. He reached and took hold of Mycroft’s gleaming cock, slick with a mixture of Greg’s sweat and spit, and Mycroft’s pre-come; Greg’s mouth watered as he slid his hand over it, his thrusts picking up speed and force, his libido having no respect for his relative age and fitness. Mycroft made high-pitched grunts and stiffened – his ejaculate shot out with force–

 

Greg fell to his elbows, thrusting unevenly while a live wire lit him up from inside, then his orgasm thundered through him with all the subtlety of a freight train.

 

He lost sense of time passing. Eventually he became aware of his own harsh panting. He drifted as he listened to his breathing gradually slowing.

 

He blinked. His pulse still hammered in his ears. _Not dead yet. Close thing._

 

Greg lifted his head on a wobbly, wet-noodle neck. Mycroft’s eyes slitted open, watching him with a face wiped clear of any trace of tension. Greg stared in fascination as a single tiny tear made the slow journey from the corner of Mycroft’s left eye past his eyelashes, through the hint of crow’s feet and over his temple, finally disappearing into his hair. _What remains of it,_ Greg thought with idle fondness.

 

He shifted, his softening dick slipping free, both of them making disappointed sighs at the sensation. Greg leant down and gave Mycroft a soft kiss. ‘Alright?’

 

‘Yes,’ Mycroft answered with a small nod, wrecking his hair even more on Greg’s pillows. ‘I’m… very well,’ he concluded with a loose smile.

 

‘Good. That’s good,’ Greg said, leaning in to kiss him again. He levered himself off the bed, pausing to extract his dick from the condom, and headed for the bathroom. ‘I’ll be back, wait there,’ he ordered as he left the bedroom.

 

He bumped into the door jamb as he walked through it, bouncing off it without really noticing the impact. His whole body tingled, feeling both energised and as soggy as the cake in “MacArthur Park”. He slapped the bathroom light on and dropped the condom into the bin.

 

Greg surveyed his reflection in the mirror over the sink. The man looking back at him seemed unreasonably smug and well-fucked. He huffed, and turned on the tap, running warm water as he washed his hands and grabbed a flannel to clean himself up. A shower would have been ideal but the urge to go back to bed was too powerful to ignore. Greg rinsed the flannel and walked back to the bedroom.

 

His mind was pleasantly void of any complex thoughts, until he saw Mycroft sitting on the edge of the bed taking in their clothes scattered over the floor, his expression pained.

 

‘Hey, it's okay,’ Greg assured him, feeling a twinge of guilt at his barbaric treatment of Mycroft’s fine clothing. He handed off the warm flannel. ‘Here, you clean up and I'll sort this out.’

 

Greg retrieved Mycroft’s shirt and shook out the creases as best he could, folding it over a hanger and hooking it on the doorknob. He turned to look at Mycroft, and was disconcerted to see him staring at him – and not at his face, he noted with a smirk.

 

‘You are… ogling,’ Greg declared, grinning.

 

‘I beg your pardon? I'm doing no such thing.’

 

Greg snorted and bent ostentatiously to pick up Mycroft’s trousers and pants. ‘Uh-huh, whatever, Mycroft.’

 

Mycroft sniffed and continued wiping himself with fastidious care. ‘You seem to have a high opinion of your physical attributes, Gregory,’ he commented.

 

Greg dropped the clothes over the back of his bedroom chair; a piece of furniture that held all manner of things and therefore was never actually used for its intended purpose.

 

‘I'm not sure it's _my_ high opinion we’re seeing here, actually,’ Greg said, moving to stand in front of Mycroft. He placed his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders, stroking his smooth skin. He was blushing, Greg was delighted to notice. _How can he be blushing after we've just been fucking?_

 

He shook his head slowly. ‘I think it's _you_ that has a high opinion of my – what was it?’

 

Mycroft cleared his throat. ‘Your physical attributes.’

 

‘Yeah. Them.’ Greg dropped to his knees. He held Mycroft's eyes as caught his face between his hands and kissed him, stroking his tongue into Mycroft's mouth and groaning at the sensation of Mycroft's tongue sliding against his.

 

 _Bloody perfect_.

 

Greg pulled back after a long moment. His knees really were too aged to be on the floor for long. He gave Mycroft another brief kiss and clambered to his feet. His head spun for a second and he had a very sudden, very urgent pang of hunger. _Oh right, nothing since midday._

 

‘I need to eat.’

 

‘In the nude?’ Mycroft looked completely scandalised. Greg laughed.

 

‘Well, if we order curry I will consider wearing my pants to open the door for the delivery guy.’ Greg retrieved his underwear from the tangle of his trousers. He waved them in Mycroft's direction. ‘Okay?’

 

‘Hmm, don't feel obliged on my account. I must be on my way, I'm afraid.’ Mycroft stood and took his clothing from the back of the chair.

 

‘What – no!’ Greg protested. ‘No, you don't, Mycroft. You aren't gonna do that to me again, damn it!’ Greg unclenched his hands and deliberately dropped his shoulders down from where they had quickly bunched with tension. _Royal blue this time,_ Greg noted as Mycroft donned his underwear. _Christ, how can he look graceful pulling on his pants?_

 

Greg took a calming breath.

 

‘Let me get some food in. Stay and eat with me. We’ll have a drink and you can tell me what the hell Sherlock’s been doing all this time, yeah?’ Greg tried not to sound like he was begging, but he was.

 

Mycroft straightened and paused for a long moment. He looked over at Greg, his face once more giving nothing of his thoughts away. He finally raised one eyebrow and nodded.

 

‘Very well. Did you mention Indian cuisine?’

 

 _Yes!_ Greg gave a mental punch to the air. He couldn't hold back his grin.

 

‘Gregory.’

 

‘Hmm, yeah?’

 

‘Pants.’

 

\---››››‹‹‹‹---

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft looked at the remains of their meal: half empty takeaway cartons, two empty bowls and a bottle that now only held enough wine to wet the bottom of the glass.

A soft snore came from his left and Mycroft slowly turned his head to look, not wishing to wake the man currently asleep against his shoulder. He could see closely-cropped silver hair and the protruding tip of Lestrade’s nose. Mycroft found himself in a quandary. How could he extricate himself without waking Lestrade? The bigger quandary he didn't relish thinking about: how was he to cease this sort of contact with Lestrade? How could he reframe their relationship to once again be one of a professional nature? Perhaps he could maintain a friendship of sorts? Yes, he would be friendly with Lestrade, but he would let it be known that that’s all it could be. They could share a meal occasionally, meet for coffee now and again -- surely that was achievable?

The thought made him slightly ill and Mycroft swallowed against the knot in his throat. He leant forward to place his glass on the table, jostling Lestrade in the process -- well, one quandary was resolved at least. Lestrade made a small sound of protest and blinked at Mycroft.

‘Oh. Sorry, did I fall asleep?’ Lestrade looked baffled, his dark eyes wide and guileless.

Mycroft held his breath, listening to his heart thump as he drank in the sight of Lestrade's face. How had one ordinary, middle-aged goldfish-of-a-man become so important to him? He'd set himself an impossible task, and not for the first time. He took a breath, preparing to speak, to say good bye.

‘Don't,’ Lestrade said preemptively.

‘I'm … sorry? What?’ Mycroft queried, trying to ignore the slight quaver in his voice.

‘Don't go. Stay. Stay the night with me.’ Lestrade’s voice was low and urgent.

He moved, straddling Mycroft’s legs. It happened so quickly Mycroft had no chance to evade him or protest. Now he had a lap full of substantially-built policeman. There was nowhere to put his hands but on Lestrade's bare legs, the lightly furred skin of which was warm and gave slightly under the pressure of his fingertips. Lestrade's deodorant had long since given ground to the man’s natural body odour, a scent that made Mycroft inhale deeply. It was--

Overwhelming.

Lestrade put his wide hands on either side of Mycroft’s face. ‘You're regretting things again, you're going to retreat behind your suit, your umbrella, your car, and your bloody _minor position in government_. Just… don't. Please,’ Lestrade entreated.

Mycroft stared up at him, speechless. He tried to form words but there were none. The intensity in Lestrade's gaze was a physical force and he had to close his eyes for a moment to gather his scattered wits.

‘I--’ Mycroft licked his lips and swallowed. ‘There are sound reasons for my preference to not become involved in…’ --Mycroft paused, looking for the right word or phrase-- ‘personal complications.’ Yes, that really did sum up this situation.

‘That's what you think this is? A complication?’ Lestrade moved his hands to Mycroft's shoulders and leant back slightly.

Unsurprisingly, Lestrade was unhappy with his interpretation. Mycroft's chest squeezed around his next breath; he didn't like it when Lestrade was upset.

‘Exactly how have I managed to complicate your life, eh? Tell me, ‘cause in the last two years I didn't see you once! I didn't even try to contact you, I just--’ Lestrade stopped and dipped his head, shaking it slowly. ‘God! I was on my own and hung out to dry.’

‘I was watching you,’ Mycroft admitted in a rush, unable to withstand Lestrade's harrowed expression. ‘I always knew what was happening at the Met. You were never alone, Gregory.’ His hands had drifted upwards to grip Lestrade's hips, warm through the cotton of his underwear.

Lestrade stared him in the eye. ‘I didn't ask you to -- I wasn't even aware of that!’

Mycroft nodded. ‘Yes, that was the whole idea. For your own safety.’ He took a fortifying breath. ‘And that is what I mean by complication. I have...feelings. For you.’ He looked down, away from Lestrade's intensely dark eyes. ‘It's not something I can easily deal with, and--’

‘Stop.’

Mycroft looked up at the clipped command. He slowly slid his hands down Lestrade's thighs wondering if this was to be an ending. His chest squeezed painfully again -- but this is how he'd intended it to go, so it was perverse to be suddenly panicky at the thought of leaving.

But Lestrade no longer seemed angry, his forehead had lost some its taut lines and he hadn't moved off Mycroft's lap.

‘I'm not asking for the world here, Mycroft, just some of your time. Do you want to see how it goes?’ Lestrade asked, his voice dropping to a persuasive murmur. ‘Just try tonight for now, hm? Then see where that leaves us, maybe get a meal out sometime, yeah?’ Lestrade leant his head against Mycroft's, smiling slightly.

Mycroft closed his eyes, humming at the contact, his hands moving up Lestrade's legs to find the end of his boxers, his fingers slipping under to stroke the top of Lestrade's thighs. _Damn, damn, damn_...

He looked into Lestrade’s eyes, lost once again. ‘Yes,’ he sighed.

‘Yeah?’

Lestrade’s wide smile blazed through Mycroft’s skin, fizzling along his nerve endings. He wrapped his hands around Lestrade’s warm, smooth back with a tentative smile of his own. For once he wished he could stop second-guessing himself. If only he could--

Mycroft was pressed back against the cushions, Lestrade’s mouth on his, kissing urgently, teeth nipping, tongue stroking… god. Lestrade made sound between a hum and a growl, grinding his arse down in Mycroft’s lap. _Christ_!

Mycroft pulled his lips away slightly. ‘Gregory, I'm not a young man!’ he protested.

Lestrade laughed. ‘You're younger than me!’

He leant down and sucked a kiss on Mycroft’s neck where the collar of his shirt was open. Mycroft had decided not to replace his tie when redressing and was now very thankful.

‘Gregory, I think it's obvious that you are an outlier where statistics are concerned for men of your age,’ he said with a hitched breath. His hips jolted upwards when Lestrade sucked under his jaw. _Lord help me..._

He was under no illusion that there wouldn't be a hefty price to pay for succumbing to the temptation that was Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft had no idea how this would end, but for now he was resigned to his fate.

This particular temptation had proved to be irresistible.

\---››››‹‹‹‹---

 


End file.
